A few years ago I attended a Parent/Teacher Conference with Mitch and Natalie. I did my best to attend as many as possible because I wanted my son to know that I loved him and I would always be there for him. Mostly, I wanted Mitch to know I was his biggest fan.
It was about 7PM on an ordinary evening. The school was filled with young students each eager to show their parents their world. Paper art projects proudly attached to the walls, the smell of glue and crayons brought back vivid memories and feelings from my own childhood. As we entered Mitchell’s class room he shyly pointed to his desk with his name badge. It wasn't spectacular, and it looked like everyone else’s, but it was his and he was proud of it. And I was proud of him.
We were then greeted by his teacher and invited to sit at a tiny elementary school table and sit in even tinier chairs. Mitch quietly giggled seeing his big dad sit on a chair that may as well have been a thimble. I love my son and I miss the sound of his giggles.
Mitch, with eager eyes and a humble disposition, sat between my wife and me as we began to learn about his progress. I’ll never forget his sweet face, still bearing remnants of a milk mustache from his after school snack along with a chapped bottom lip. The very sight of him reminded me what goodness looked like.
As his teacher began to discuss how he was doing in class I could tell how much it meant to Mitch whenever she was complimentary of him. Sure there were things to work on, but she celebrated his success and helped Mitch feel good about himself – and because of that Mitch believed in himself.
My heart swelled with gratitude for this educator who understood her job wasn't to teach concepts, but to teach people. She knew the difference. Because of that, she knew the most important thing she could do for her students was to help them believe in themselves – that they were each uniquely capable and absolutely awesome.
I had a pivotal moment many years ago in high school when my teacher (Mrs. Osa) recognized something in me. I wasn't prepared for her observation – but in that moment she helped me believe in me. She lit a spark in my soul and my life was forever changed. Mrs. Osa, wherever you are, thank you. The echo of your belief in me is still felt, even 25 years later.
So, as I watched my tender son, a little boy who wasn't as strong as the other kids, a little boy who wondered if he would ever amount to much … and suddenly I saw a spark in his eye and a new light in his countenance. Mitch began to grow with confidence. My heart was overflowing with love and gratitude then, and it overflows today.
I wonder how often I've missed opportunities to lift and build others because I said to myself, “What difference will it make?” This night with my son, and that unexpected moment 25 years ago reminded me what a difference makes. The difference I’m talking about is often so small it can be mistaken for something not worth doing: a little smile in the hall, a compliment, recognition, appreciation for someone on or a simple word of encouragement or love … it makes a difference.
A small difference can make all the difference.
When I was a young boy all I ever wanted was my parent’s approval. I wanted them to be proud of me, to show an interest in me and to give me enough time to know they cared. As long as I knew they loved me I felt like I could take on the world.
But the world wasn't always kind. I remember moving to Minnesota as a young child. It was my first winter and I was about 9 or 10. During recess a bunch of kids were sledding down an ice-packed hill in their snow pants. I didn't know anyone so I tried to jump in and do what everyone else was doing – hoping to make some friends. I remember being pushed over at the bottom of the icy hill by some boy who felt I didn't belong. As I tried to stand another boy pushed me back down. Within a minute I was surrounded and being kicked and spat upon by a mob of young men who didn't like me for some reason. I tried to crawl up the hill but kept sliding down the packed ice … back into their relentless kicks and a rainfall of saliva and swearwords.
I don’t remember who those boys were. Even were I asked to identify them at the time I couldn't because I covered my face so it wouldn't be kicked. Thankfully there was never a repeat of that experience. Those boys had their pound of flesh and I slipped back into anonymity. I remember how I felt on the bus ride home. My jacket and snow pants dirty from countless spits, I felt awkward and inside out. I was confused and ashamed. When I got home I quietly went to our laundry room and washed my jacket and pants with hot water and a rag, without my mom knowing what happened. I vowed that day, and every day thereafter, to be kind to others and to love those who were downtrodden. I wasn't angry or vengeful. I only wanted to love more.
Over the years I forgot about that experience but it forever changed me … and I tried to be kind to everyone. In the end, when we meet our Maker, nothing really counts if we’re unkind. I think many adults forget this. I know some powerful, successful men who beneath their chest thumping and lion-like roars are just insecure boys who never really grew up. They are worse than schoolyard bullies and have forgotten the life lessons we were taught in kindergarten and our childhood sandboxes. What do we really gain if we heap upon us riches at the cost of being good? What do we gain if we create cultures of fear and gossip? Nothing but a brittle and strenuous life … and that is no life at all.
I never wanted my son or other children to go anywhere without a sure knowledge we loved them – because I remembered how much that meant to me. Sweet Mitch was blessed with kind peers. I was so grateful he was never bullied at school or by neighborhood kids. In fact, he often had a gaggle of kids around him, helping him and cheering him on. And with the exception of one short-lived teacher aide a few years ago, who was unkind to him, he was blessed by some wonderful and loving adults that not only cared after him, but cared for him. My sweet boy really never felt alone. He felt loved, and for that I am so very grateful.
I loved seeing Mitchie at school. His face radiated love and my heart exploded every time I saw his smile. Mitch was always quick to do his homework – and because of his discipline, his life was a lot easier. While my other kids slogged about [as most kids do] and took hours doing what could have taken 30 minutes, sweet Mitch was done and playing long before anyone else.
We go to school to learn basic concepts and skills – but more importantly we go to school to learn how to learn. At least that’s how it should be … because learning how to learn is the ultimate knowledge. And once we learn how to learn we are equipped for life. There is no job, no assignment or obstacle, no opportunity or hardship we can’t figure out. It is a silly thing to think our learning stops when we graduate.
Life offers some hard lessons and we are sometimes given some difficult homework. Losing my son has been the most difficult work of all – and my pages are warped with salt and tears. But I keep working at it. Each day, as I go through the homework of grief I learn a quiet lesson here and a subtle teaching there. Each day is also a test to see if I've learned or grown. If I pass, I move toward the next question or phase of grief. If I fail, I keep working at it.
Life is a fascinating school. I hope I can be like my little son – who had the discipline to not avoid the hard stuff. I have come to learn that while we may not be able to control some events in our lives, we can control how we respond to them … what meaning they have for us. And that is homework, too.
I suspect at the twilight of my own life, when my body is tired, old and grey … when I am anxious to leave and see my long-lost son … I will look back on my own life and see an intricately woven tapestry of hardships, lessons, blessings and tender mercies – all designed to help my spirit grow. A master class. I will realize with new clarity that Mitchell’s Journey started long before he was born and that the events in our lives are more interconnected than we realize. But between now and that final sunset I have homework yet to do and the work of grief, however hard and crushing, I must go through.
I believe my little boy passed the test. I hope with all of my heart I can, too.
About a week after my son passed away I walked into his room and found his faithful puppy Marlie sleeping at the foot of his bed waiting for him. Upon seeing this I immediately fell to my knees and began to sob. Although my vision was blurred by tears I eventually noticed the white rose on his pillow that was left by the mortuary when they came to take my son away. It hit me in a way it hadn't before … my sweet son was gone. Really gone. The weight of grief was so profound at this moment that breathing was nearly impossible and in many ways death for me would have been a sweet release. Of course, I know better but the aching in my heart was visceral and brute.
Last weekend, eight months later, we watched a Primary program from the children in my church. It was beautiful and my heart was filled with gratitude for the women who volunteered their time and talents to create such a special occasion for parents to see their little ones shine. I kept my eye trained on Wyatt and I was so proud of him. I tried to stay focused on my youngest boy and I smiled and winked at him often. I wanted him to know he was loved. But at some point during the program my eyes scanned the landscape of young faces and I saw Mitchell’s classmates and best friends. Once again I was overwhelmed with the harsh reality my sweet son is gone. Really gone. As I watched these children sing my heart fell to the floor and was trampled by a stampede of brutal emotions. I did everything I could to keep from weeping and I almost lost it 1,000 times. Every second was a battle to remain composed. As beautiful as that program was, it was a very difficult day because a very special boy was gone.
Today Mitchell’s room remains relatively untouched. On his wall hangs a Halo calendar with February still on display. His drawers are filled his treasures just as he left them; Cub Scout advancements waiting to be sewn to his uniform, his favorite candy, unfinished Lego projects, a closet filled with things he treasured. Behind his door, hanging from a coat hook, is his backpack with January homework assignments he worked diligently to complete. On his bedpost are two of my hats he wanted to wear while he was home on hospice, which I gladly gave him and adjusted them to his head so they would fit properly. The deep sentimentalist inside me doesn't think I can wear them again.
When we eat meals as a family we often don’t realize, as a matter of habit, we've set 6 places at the table until we’re seated. Five seats are occupied. One seat, visibly empty. Nobody says a word about it and we carry about our usual business of catching up with each other and enjoying conversation. We smile, laugh and talk about life today and our memories of yesterday.
As a family we are not morose and we naturally celebrate all that is good in our lives. But, deep inside me, the father who desperately seeks after his lost son, anguishes that he is gone.
At moments when I least expect it powerful emotions come barging into my life. And when they do, they are soul-rending and utterly heartbreaking. Like a drowning man gasps for air, I find myself at times gasping for my son in a sea of grief. Thankfully these moments are less frequent, but they are no less powerful and overwhelming.
I often hear of stereotypical fathers who never show emotion and seemingly never feel them. If there are such men in the world, sometimes in my moments of grief, I envy them. But, alas, I am not that kind of father – nor do I ever want to be – because when I love, I am me.
Since Mitchell’s passing I have had moments of peace that defy human experience. I have had some experiences that are so sacred I will never share them publicly. But I will say that I know my son lives. But he is over there. And I am here. And even though I have a spiritual understanding of things as they really are, that doesn't keep my heart from breaking. And sometimes my soul weeps.
Love and sorrow are part of the mortal journey. Both exquisite, both dear teachers of the soul; and I will forever be their student.
This morning my wife and I drove to Mitchell’s elementary school to collect his personal and school belongings. The air was cold and the sky was wrapped in a dull, grey blanket of clouds that seemed to match the mood of things. As we approached the school I reflected on all of the amazing teachers and staff who had done so much to support and love our family and I was overcome with gratitude. There was no coldness in my heart.
I was doing okay until his teacher reached for a file box that contained everything that was Mitchells. In an instant, I was overcome by strong emotions and I did all that I could to hold back a massive surge of tears. Tears came anyway. My hands trembled and my body quaked as I quietly gasped for air. The pain of this moment was palpable.
There, in a cardboard box, were items that to a stranger would have no value; but to us, its contents were priceless. A plastic container filled with pencils and crayons that Mitchell collected, a name tag, pieces of paper with his handwriting … a potpourri of elementary school artifacts that to me were more valuable than all the treasures of ancient Egypt.
As Mitchell’s teacher (Mrs. Masina) handed the box to Natalie she gave her a hug. I stood a few feet away fighting back the tears, doing all that I could to keep composed. All I wanted to do was curl up in a corner and sob. This compassionate teacher described how much Mitchell meant to her and that she loved him – it was clear that she was hurting, too. With a broken voice she admitted handing the box over to us was difficult because she loved Mitch and she felt like she was giving part of her heart away.
After Mitchell passed away she had each student write down their memories of him. She carefully laminated and bound the pages into a book. Each page was thoughtfully authored from his peers ... each page personal and authentic. Mitchell was universally referred to by his classmates as kind, deeply caring, fun to be with and humble. Reading through these hand written letters and drawings from 5th Graders, I learned quite a bit about Mitch. I also learned a lot about 5th graders … especially what they notice. I was reminded of one of my favorite sayings: “Oh what a tangled web do parents weave when they think their children are naive.” In reading their observations it was clear these young children were reflective, thoughtful and keen observers. Today these young students were my teacher … and I have been taking notes.
This painful experience was a gentle reminder that education is more than academics – that knowledge without humanity is hollow. The best teachers also teach what it means to be human – not by what they say, but who they are. And Mrs. Masina did this beautifully … and so did her students.
So here we stand on the other side of Mitchell’s education … and suddenly we are students of the hardest lesson life has to teach. Our homework … invisible to the eye - must be worked out in quiet of the mind and heart. I get the impression this homework will take a lifetime to complete. And when I look at this photo of these two beautifully compassionate women, I am reminded that there is a classroom none of us leave alive. Sometimes we are teachers … but we are always students.